Kidnapped

CHAPTER XXIII

CLUNY’S CAGE

We came at last to the foot of an exceeding steep wood, which scrambled
up a craggy hillside, and was crowned by a naked precipice.

“It’s here,” said one of the guides, and we struck up hill.

The trees clung upon the slope, like sailors on the shrouds of a ship,
and their trunks were like the rounds of a ladder, by which we mounted.

Quite at the top, and just before the rocky face of the cliff sprang
above the foliage, we found that strange house which was known in the
country as “Cluny’s Cage.” The trunks of several trees had been wattled
across, the intervals strengthened with stakes, and the ground behind
this barricade levelled up with earth to make the floor. A tree, which
grew out from the hillside, was the living centre-beam of the roof.
The walls were of wattle and covered with moss. The whole house had
something of an egg shape; and it half hung, half stood in that steep,
hillside thicket, like a wasp’s nest in a green hawthorn.

Within, it was large enough to shelter five or six persons with some
comfort. A projection of the cliff had been cunningly employed to be the
fireplace; and the smoke rising against the face of the rock, and being
not dissimilar in colour, readily escaped notice from below.

This was but one of Cluny’s hiding-places; he had caves, besides, and
underground chambers in several parts of his country; and following the
reports of his scouts, he moved from one to another as the soldiers
drew near or moved away. By this manner of living, and thanks to the
affection of his clan, he had not only stayed all this time in safety,
while so many others had fled or been taken and slain: but stayed four
or five years longer, and only went to France at last by the express
command of his master. There he soon died; and it is strange to reflect
that he may have regretted his Cage upon Ben Alder.

When we came to the door he was seated by his rock chimney, watching a
gillie about some cookery. He was mighty plainly habited, with a knitted
nightcap drawn over his ears, and smoked a foul cutty pipe. For all that
he had the manners of a king, and it was quite a sight to see him rise
out of his place to welcome us.

“Well, Mr. Stewart, come awa’, sir!” said he, “and bring in your friend
that as yet I dinna ken the name of.”

“And how is yourself, Cluny?” said Alan. “I hope ye do brawly, sir. And
I am proud to see ye, and to present to ye my friend the Laird of Shaws,
Mr. David Balfour.”

Alan never referred to my estate without a touch of a sneer, when we
were alone; but with strangers, he rang the words out like a herald.

“Step in by, the both of ye, gentlemen,” says Cluny. “I make ye welcome
to my house, which is a queer, rude place for certain, but one where I
have entertained a royal personage, Mr. Stewart--ye doubtless ken the
personage I have in my eye. We’ll take a dram for luck, and as soon as
this handless man of mine has the collops ready, we’ll dine and take a
hand at the cartes as gentlemen should. My life is a bit driegh,” says
he, pouring out the brandy; “I see little company, and sit and twirl my
thumbs, and mind upon a great day that is gone by, and weary for another
great day that we all hope will be upon the road. And so here’s a toast
to ye: The Restoration!”

Thereupon we all touched glasses and drank. I am sure I wished no ill
to King George; and if he had been there himself in proper person, it’s
like he would have done as I did. No sooner had I taken out the drain
than I felt hugely better, and could look on and listen, still a little
mistily perhaps, but no longer with the same groundless horror and
distress of mind.

It was certainly a strange place, and we had a strange host. In his long
hiding, Cluny had grown to have all manner of precise habits, like those
of an old maid. He had a particular place, where no one else must sit;
the Cage was arranged in a particular way, which none must disturb;
cookery was one of his chief fancies, and even while he was greeting us
in, he kept an eye to the collops.

It appears, he sometimes visited or received visits from his wife and
one or two of his nearest friends, under the cover of night; but for the
more part lived quite alone, and communicated only with his sentinels
and the gillies that waited on him in the Cage. The first thing in the
morning, one of them, who was a barber, came and shaved him, and gave
him the news of the country, of which he was immoderately greedy. There
was no end to his questions; he put them as earnestly as a child; and
at some of the answers, laughed out of all bounds of reason, and would
break out again laughing at the mere memory, hours after the barber was
gone.

To be sure, there might have been a purpose in his questions; for
though he was thus sequestered, and like the other landed gentlemen of
Scotland, stripped by the late Act of Parliament of legal powers, he
still exercised a patriarchal justice in his clan. Disputes were brought
to him in his hiding-hole to be decided; and the men of his country,
who would have snapped their fingers at the Court of Session, laid
aside revenge and paid down money at the bare word of this forfeited and
hunted outlaw. When he was angered, which was often enough, he gave
his commands and breathed threats of punishment like any king; and his
gillies trembled and crouched away from him like children before a hasty
father. With each of them, as he entered, he ceremoniously shook hands,
both parties touching their bonnets at the same time in a military
manner. Altogether, I had a fair chance to see some of the inner
workings of a Highland clan; and this with a proscribed, fugitive chief;
his country conquered; the troops riding upon all sides in quest of
him, sometimes within a mile of where he lay; and when the least of the
ragged fellows whom he rated and threatened, could have made a fortune
by betraying him.

On that first day, as soon as the collops were ready, Cluny gave them
with his own hand a squeeze of a lemon (for he was well supplied with
luxuries) and bade us draw in to our meal.

“They,” said he, meaning the collops, “are such as I gave his Royal
Highness in this very house; bating the lemon juice, for at that time we
were glad to get the meat and never fashed for kitchen.[28] Indeed, there
were mair dragoons than lemons in my country in the year forty-six.”

[28] Condiment.

I do not know if the collops were truly very good, but my heart rose
against the sight of them, and I could eat but little. All the while
Cluny entertained us with stories of Prince Charlie’s stay in the Cage,
giving us the very words of the speakers, and rising from his place
to show us where they stood. By these, I gathered the Prince was a
gracious, spirited boy, like the son of a race of polite kings, but not
so wise as Solomon. I gathered, too, that while he was in the Cage, he
was often drunk; so the fault that has since, by all accounts, made such
a wreck of him, had even then begun to show itself.

We were no sooner done eating than Cluny brought out an old, thumbed,
greasy pack of cards, such as you may find in a mean inn; and his eyes
brightened in his face as he proposed that we should fall to playing.

Now this was one of the things I had been brought up to eschew like
disgrace; it being held by my father neither the part of a Christian
nor yet of a gentleman to set his own livelihood and fish for that of
others, on the cast of painted pasteboard. To be sure, I might have
pleaded my fatigue, which was excuse enough; but I thought it behoved
that I should bear a testimony. I must have got very red in the face,
but I spoke steadily, and told them I had no call to be a judge
of others, but for my own part, it was a matter in which I had no
clearness.

Cluny stopped mingling the cards. “What in deil’s name is this?” says
he. “What kind of Whiggish, canting talk is this, for the house of Cluny
Macpherson?”

“I will put my hand in the fire for Mr. Balfour,” says Alan. “He is an
honest and a mettle gentleman, and I would have ye bear in mind who says
it. I bear a king’s name,” says he, cocking his hat; “and I and any that
I call friend are company for the best. But the gentleman is tired, and
should sleep; if he has no mind to the cartes, it will never hinder you
and me. And I’m fit and willing, sir, to play ye any game that ye can
name.”

“Sir,” says Cluny, “in this poor house of mine I would have you to ken
that any gentleman may follow his pleasure. If your friend would like to
stand on his head, he is welcome. And if either he, or you, or any other
man, is not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to step outside with
him.”

I had no will that these two friends should cut their throats for my
sake.

“Sir,” said I, “I am very wearied, as Alan says; and what’s more, as
you are a man that likely has sons of your own, I may tell you it was a
promise to my father.”

“Say nae mair, say nae mair,” said Cluny, and pointed me to a bed of
heather in a corner of the Cage. For all that he was displeased enough,
looked at me askance, and grumbled when he looked. And indeed it must
be owned that both my scruples and the words in which I declared them,
smacked somewhat of the Covenanter, and were little in their place among
wild Highland Jacobites.

What with the brandy and the venison, a strange heaviness had come over
me; and I had scarce lain down upon the bed before I fell into a kind
of trance, in which I continued almost the whole time of our stay in the
Cage. Sometimes I was broad awake and understood what passed; sometimes
I only heard voices, or men snoring, like the voice of a silly river;
and the plaids upon the wall dwindled down and swelled out again, like
firelight shadows on the roof. I must sometimes have spoken or cried
out, for I remember I was now and then amazed at being answered; yet
I was conscious of no particular nightmare, only of a general, black,
abiding horror--a horror of the place I was in, and the bed I lay in,
and the plaids on the wall, and the voices, and the fire, and myself.

The barber-gillie, who was a doctor too, was called in to prescribe
for me; but as he spoke in the Gaelic, I understood not a word of his
opinion, and was too sick even to ask for a translation. I knew well
enough I was ill, and that was all I cared about.

I paid little heed while I lay in this poor pass. But Alan and Cluny
were most of the time at the cards, and I am clear that Alan must have
begun by winning; for I remember sitting up, and seeing them hard at it,
and a great glittering pile of as much as sixty or a hundred guineas on
the table. It looked strange enough, to see all this wealth in a nest
upon a cliff-side, wattled about growing trees. And even then, I
thought it seemed deep water for Alan to be riding, who had no better
battle-horse than a green purse and a matter of five pounds.

The luck, it seems, changed on the second day. About noon I was wakened
as usual for dinner, and as usual refused to eat, and was given a dram
with some bitter infusion which the barber had prescribed. The sun was
shining in at the open door of the Cage, and this dazzled and offended
me. Cluny sat at the table, biting the pack of cards. Alan had stooped
over the bed, and had his face close to my eyes; to which, troubled as
they were with the fever, it seemed of the most shocking bigness.

He asked me for a loan of my money.

“What for?” said I.

“O, just for a loan,” said he.

“But why?” I repeated. “I don’t see.”

“Hut, David!” said Alan, “ye wouldnae grudge me a loan?”

I would, though, if I had had my senses! But all I thought of then was
to get his face away, and I handed him my money.

On the morning of the third day, when we had been forty-eight hours in
the Cage, I awoke with a great relief of spirits, very weak and weary
indeed, but seeing things of the right size and with their honest,
everyday appearance. I had a mind to eat, moreover, rose from bed of my
own movement, and as soon as we had breakfasted, stepped to the entry of
the Cage and sat down outside in the top of the wood. It was a grey day
with a cool, mild air: and I sat in a dream all morning, only disturbed
by the passing by of Cluny’s scouts and servants coming with provisions
and reports; for as the coast was at that time clear, you might almost
say he held court openly.

When I returned, he and Alan had laid the cards aside, and were
questioning a gillie; and the chief turned about and spoke to me in the
Gaelic.

“I have no Gaelic, sir,” said I.

Now since the card question, everything I said or did had the power of
annoying Cluny. “Your name has more sense than yourself, then,” said he
angrily, “for it’s good Gaelic. But the point is this. My scout reports
all clear in the south, and the question is, have ye the strength to
go?”

I saw cards on the table, but no gold; only a heap of little written
papers, and these all on Cluny’s side. Alan, besides, had an odd
look, like a man not very well content; and I began to have a strong
misgiving.

“I do not know if I am as well as I should be,” said I, looking at Alan;
“but the little money we have has a long way to carry us.”

Alan took his under-lip into his mouth, and looked upon the ground.

“David,” says he at last, “I’ve lost it; there’s the naked truth.”

“My money too?” said I.

“Your money too,” says Alan, with a groan. “Ye shouldnae have given it
me. I’m daft when I get to the cartes.”

“Hoot-toot! hoot-toot!” said Cluny. “It was all daffing; it’s all
nonsense. Of course you’ll have your money back again, and the double of
it, if ye’ll make so free with me. It would be a singular thing for me
to keep it. It’s not to be supposed that I would be any hindrance to
gentlemen in your situation; that would be a singular thing!” cries he,
and began to pull gold out of his pocket with a mighty red face.

Alan said nothing, only looked on the ground.

“Will you step to the door with me, sir?” said I.

Cluny said he would be very glad, and followed me readily enough, but he
looked flustered and put out.

“And now, sir,” says I, “I must first acknowledge your generosity.”

“Nonsensical nonsense!” cries Cluny. “Where’s the generosity? This is
just a most unfortunate affair; but what would ye have me do--boxed
up in this bee-skep of a cage of mine--but just set my friends to the
cartes, when I can get them? And if they lose, of course, it’s not to be
supposed----” And here he came to a pause.

“Yes,” said I, “if they lose, you give them back their money; and if
they win, they carry away yours in their pouches! I have said before
that I grant your generosity; but to me, sir, it’s a very painful thing
to be placed in this position.”

There was a little silence, in which Cluny seemed always as if he was
about to speak, but said nothing. All the time he grew redder and redder
in the face.

“I am a young man,” said I, “and I ask your advice. Advise me as you
would your son. My friend fairly lost his money, after having fairly
gained a far greater sum of yours; can I accept it back again? Would
that be the right part for me to play? Whatever I do, you can see for
yourself it must be hard upon a man of any pride.”

“It’s rather hard on me, too, Mr. Balfour,” said Cluny, “and ye give
me very much the look of a man that has entrapped poor people to their
hurt. I wouldnae have my friends come to any house of mine to accept
affronts; no,” he cried, with a sudden heat of anger, “nor yet to give
them!”

“And so you see, sir,” said I, “there is something to be said upon my
side; and this gambling is a very poor employ for gentlefolks. But I am
still waiting your opinion.”

I am sure if ever Cluny hated any man it was David Balfour. He looked
me all over with a warlike eye, and I saw the challenge at his lips.
But either my youth disarmed him, or perhaps his own sense of justice.
Certainly it was a mortifying matter for all concerned, and not least
Cluny; the more credit that he took it as he did.

“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “I think you are too nice and covenanting, but
for all that you have the spirit of a very pretty gentleman. Upon my
honest word, ye may take this money--it’s what I would tell my son--and
here’s my hand along with it!”